1920's
by Celtic
Summary: Life is different in the 1920s, but how different for former newsie?


Spot, Race, and Jack are a property of Disney  
  
Smoke clouded the room like a fog, though his blue eyes were clearly visible to the figure sitting across the table from him. Standing behind him was the only person he trusted, in their business they trusted nobody.  
  
"So, didja get the job done?" asked the figure.  
  
"I said we did didn't I?" he returned.  
  
The figure smiled as he sat back in his chair, puffing a cigar. He was heavy set, but the most well known man in Chicago. He had connections, and right now he was making sure a job was finished in New York City.  
  
"I guess I should pay you." he said.  
  
"Yer a real bastard, you know dat? I don't want yer blood money."  
  
Two figures standing against the wall stepped forward and cocked their guns, the figure stopped them with a wave of his hand. He stood and walked around the table and stood over the two.  
  
"Mr. Conlon, you should know that in this line of business you can't get attached to anyone," he said simply, "otherwise people will think you are turning soft."  
  
Conlon jumped up and grabbed him by the lapels of his dress jacket, his blue eyes giving him a deadly glare, showing no fear. The figure smiled, one thing he liked about Conlon was he never showed fear, no matter what.  
  
The other man quickly grabbed Conlon and pulled him away from their employer. "C'mon Spot, he's just tryin' ta piss you off."  
  
Spot Conlon continued to glare as he left the room, his employer's laugh ringing in his ears. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he left the old apartment building.  
  
"Why didn't ya take the money?" asked his friend as he reached in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it.  
  
"Damn Race, we just knocked off our best friend." he snapped, leaning against a street lamp, the light shining down on him.  
  
"He had it comin'," he looked at Spot, "are you becomin' soft, like Al said?"  
  
Spot sighed. "Never thought I'd hear ya say dat, especially 'bout Jack."  
  
~Racetrack's POV~  
  
I guess I can understand why Spot's so upset, but Al's right. We can't trust anyone an' we can't get attached to anyone.  
  
We came ta Chicago ta start a new life, New York just wasn't doin' it fer us anymore. We heard about dis Al Capone an' thought we could get jobs with him, not knowin' what kind of business he was in since ya can't really trust what da headlines say about well known people.  
  
~  
  
They stood in front of the apartment building, wondering if they had the right address. It was an old apartment building that looked like it should be condemned.  
  
"Are ya sure about dis Spot? I mean we don't really know dis Al, what his business is."  
  
Spot turned to Race and rolled his eyes. "We need a job an' he agreed ta see us."  
  
Race wasn't sure about going in to see someone that was known as a gangster. He didn't like the idea of being told to kill someone without mercy.  
  
They walked into the building and searched for the room number. It wasn't necessary since there were two young men standing guard, their fedoras tilted slightly on the top of their head.  
  
"Name?" asked one forcefully.  
  
"Spot Conlon, an' dis is Racetrack Higgins."  
  
Both looked at each other then nodded. One opened the door and said, "He's expectin' you'se."  
  
As they walked by the guards, Race started to wish he were back in New York, at the tracks placing bets. There was a voice that kept telling him he wasn't going to leave the room alive.  
  
"I'm guessin' yer the two from New York." said the gentleman behind the desk in the middle of the room.  
  
"Yeah, dat's us." answered Spot, crossing his arms in front of him.  
  
Al glanced at both, looking them up and down as if reading a novel. It was said that he could tell the personality of someone just by looking at them, the truth was he was looking to see the fear. If there was no sign of fear then he knew the person was a perfect addition to his gang.  
  
"So what is it you want from me?" he asked as he searched for a cigar.  
  
"We need a job." Spot answered simply.  
  
"Would you be willin' to kill someone if I asked?"  
  
Spot gave him a hard look and replied, "I could kill you if I wanted."  
  
Al looked at Spot and smiled. "Y'know, I like you. I'm assuming you're Spot. I could use you."  
  
"An' what about Race heah?" he asked, pointing to Racetrack.  
  
Turning to Race he said, "He'll have to prove himself to me."  
  
Race was insulted by that remark. "Least I don't have others do my dirty work."  
  
A smile appeared on Al's face. "You've just proven yerself. You boys have trouble with authority, I can see that already since not many stand up to me and live."  
  
Both stood in silence, fixing their glares on Al. He stood and casually paced the room. Turning to Spot and Race he said, "I have a job for you two. In your home town, New York City...."  
  
~Spot's POV~  
  
I should've known he meant Jack, he was good at pissin' people off. Before we left New York he was in trouble fer sleepin' with his boss's daughter. I just didn't think dat he'd be able ta anger someone thousands of miles away, what a time ta be proven wrong.  
  
~  
  
"What kind of job?" Spot asked, adjusting his pin-stripe suit.  
  
Al puffed on his cigar, having second thoughts about hiring Spot and Racetrack. He had a feeling they might know his target and end up backing out of the job, he hated to have them found at the bottom of the river by the police.  
  
"I have a contact in Manhattan who tells me there's a guy that has this crazy idea that he can do whatever he wants. I recently found out that this bastard tried to take advantage of my niece."  
  
"An' you want us ta whack 'im." stated Race.  
  
The gangster turned and smiled. "Yeah, that's all I ask of you. If you two can do this then I'll see how loyal you are to me."  
  
~  
  
He told us ta meet his contact in da buildin' next ta Irvin' Hall. Of course it ain't called Irvin' Hall anymore, but its still called dat by us ex-newsies.  
  
As we left da apartment, I felt like we were in fer a big surprise but I didn't say anythin' 'cause we needed dis job. An' I figure a job's a job no matter what yer asked ta do.  
  
~Race's POV~  
  
As we drove back ta New York I could tell Spot was wonderin' about dis job. Hell I was too, I faint at da sight of blood, so how was I gonna be able ta kill someone?  
  
It took us a few days ta get back ta Manhattan, silence da whole way. Every time I tried ta talk ta Spot he'd tell me ta shut me damn mouth 'cause he was tryin' ta think. I've known him long enough ta know when he says dat, you don't speak ta him at all.  
  
~  
  
"Heah we are, back in good ol' Manhattan." said Race as he stepped out of the car.  
  
"Shut up Race, we gotta get dis job done an' over with." Spot said in an irritated voice.  
  
Race rolled his eyes as he pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it. "So where do we find dis contact of Al's?"  
  
"Right heah in dis bar." answered Spot as he walked into the building, not waiting for Race.  
  
The bar was filled with cigarette smoke, to the point that Spot coughed from it. He walked through the crowd to the bar and ordered a drink, eyeing the others leaning against the bar. Soon he saw a young man with a black fedora, his finger tracing the outside of his glass.  
  
"Dat's him," Spot said to Race, "go over ta him an' say exactly what Al told ya to say."  
  
"Don't rush me, maybe he'll come ta us."  
  
Spot rolled his eyes. "He doesn't know who we are ya dumbass."  
  
Racetrack glared at Spot. "Then how do ya know he's the one we're lookin' fer?"  
  
"Just go before I kick yer ass over der."  
  
Race knew not to mess with Spot. He gulped the last of his drink and walked over to man of choice. He leaned against the bar and muttered, "Chigago's great dis time of year ain't it?"  
  
The man didn't make a move at all. Slowly he moved a hand to his pocket, causing Race's hand to go right to the gun he always carried with him. It was the 1920s, there was always the chance someone was ready to kill you, being prepared kept you alive.  
  
"I ain't gonna blow dat pitiful thing you call a face off," said the man, "I got yer instructions right heah," He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, "Go to that address at ten tonight, in the bedroom you'll find the guy yer supposed to whack."  
  
With that the man left the bar, not giving Race a chance to ask any questions.  
  
~That Night~  
  
"What's the address again?"  
  
"It's da same apartment dat David an' his family used to live in."  
  
Spot started to have second thoughts about the job. He remembered that Jack Kelly lived in that apartment after the Jacobs family moved out, he hoped Jack wasn't there now.  
  
"Here it is," said Race, stopping in front of the apartment door, "so how should we do dis?"  
  
Rolling his eyes Spot quickly and quietly picked the lock and stepped inside the apartment. It was dark, even with the moonlight shining through the windows. Both walked inside and searched the apartment, knowing full well that whoever they were supposed to kill was in the bedroom.  
  
"Which of us is gonna do it?" whispered Race.  
  
Spot turned to him. "How 'bout you? It'll toughen you up fer other jobs."  
  
Race nodded as he pulled out his gun and made his way to the bedroom.  
  
~Race's POV~  
  
I was scared ta kill dis guy, but Spot was right, I had ta toughen up if I was gonna work with Al. How embarrassin' is it ta be a gangster an' be scared ta kill?  
  
Walkin' up to da bed I saw da guy sleepin' away. Comin' closer I saw who it was, Jack Kelly. I couldn't believe it, Al wanted ta get rid of Jack. At first I was gonna just walk out of da room an' tell Spot dat we should find a new job, but den I started thinkin' about all da things Jack did once he left da newsie life.  
  
Dat bastard would sleep with any and every goil, including da girl dat I was hopin' ta marry someday, of course dat fell through. He also ratted me an' Spot out when we was caught by da police in a jewelry store, when he knew perfectly well we weren't stealin' anythin'.  
  
It was like once he quit bein' a newsie he no longer saw us as his friends. I then remembered dat he caused Skittery's death, one of my best pals growin' up. He an' Skitts were in a bar one day an' Jack thought it'd be funny ta start a bar fight. Gunshots were heard blocks away, an' Skittery was one of the 5 dat didn't leave alive, but of course Jack left without a scratch.  
  
I aimed fer his heart, dat needed ta be broken. Before I could think twice, da trigger was pulled an' a shot rang out.  
  
~  
  
"So, anyone we know?" asked Spot as Race emerged from the bedroom.  
  
"Yeah, Jack."  
  
Spot stared. "Y'mean you just killed Cowboy? Da guy we grew up with?"  
  
"Yeah. He was no good," he walked to the door, "Let's get back ta Chicago an' let Al know."  
  
~Spot's POV~  
  
It was a shock ta me. Racetrack Higgins killed Jack Kelly.  
  
Everyone knew Jack was no good once he left da newsie life, but he didn't deserve ta die 'cause of it. There're guys all over New York dat does worse than he ever did.  
  
As much as I hated what he did, he was still a friend ta me. I wonder what he did ta Race ta make him pull dat trigger. Der was no way I was gonna ask, men of today don't talk about dey're feelin's, unless revenge is considered a feeling. 


End file.
